


Omnis Amans Amens

by orphan_account



Category: Harry - Fandom, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: But I did my best, F/M, God give me strength, Honestly this is the first time I've written anything like this, M/M, Mentions of drugs and casual sex and drinking, Multi, Okay so this is a story of Harry and how he undergoes change following the war, There is swearing in this thing please be warned, There was a lot of research done for this one Jesus Christ, Timeline is a little shaky, Written mostly in short paragraphs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 13:26:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5541689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry grows up. He becomes an Auror, a father, and Draco Malfoy's... Something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> this is a bad idea

A scrawny, black-haired, bespectacled boy.

That’s all he is now.

Well, a moderately toned, black-haired, bespectacled man who knew how to ride a motorcycle, at the very least.

(Because sometimes you get abs in a war, okay, and he hadn't been as unlucky as some others.)

Speaking of which, the end of said war had brought to light numerous things – most notably, that Voldemort was not the only evil present in the wizarding world. The death of Tom Riddle gave way to other criminals crawling out of the woodwork now that the attention could be spent, and Harry Potter – revered savior, The Boy Who Lived, poster child of everything Gryffindor – had been expected to eradicate the threat.

He had an amicable breakup with Ginny, and took an unannounced three-month vacation to Singapore instead. Muggle style, no magic.

Because Harry Potter was only human, and he got tired like the rest of the world, okay?

 _Shit_.

\--

Of course, it hadn’t been easy. Harry spent almost a week locked in his rented apartment, barely eating, frightened of sleeping. He’d thrown up till there was nothing left, sickly and shivering in a fetal position. He’d remembered the faces of everyone who had been sacrificed in the war and mourned, grieved painfully till he was swallowed in the black of it. (‘For the greater good,’ someone had said, and Harry had almost killed them because _what the fuck_ , you don’t count _lives_ like that.) Crying featured a lot in his day-to-day activity list – the only other regular activity had, in fact, been the aforementioned vomiting.

And then, on the seventh day, he’d forced himself into taking a shower and gone out – because if he was going to have some kind of grieving process, this just couldn’t be all of it.

(Plus, being savior of the wizarding world and all, going out on the seventh day was just biblically ironic, and he had a pretty sick sense of humor these days.)

He’d gotten a haircut and bought a leather jacket, and the novelty of that had driven him to bouts of hysterical laughter for weeks afterward. Decided that since he was dressed for it, to pick up riding, and went for it immediately – Singapore bike licenses were accepted internationally, so that was convenient. Picked up smoking too – _and girls, and boys_ – and since the image dictated, drank copious amounts of alcohol. He’d initially gone for the hard stuff as well, just a few days, but dropped that after he’d drowsily watched a fellow doper stagger onto the street in rush hour traffic and…

Wow. Yeah. _That_ had been a bad night. And the next few sucked, really badly, but he’d flushed all that shit out of his system by the next Monday. Replaced the urge to snort with the urge to have sex (more of it, anyway), and went on from there.

Harry had very little recollection of the first month – only that he’d been exhilarated in the days, and sobbing inconsolably in the nights.

\-- 

The next two months went considerably better, in the way that Harry remembered some of the stuff that went down.

He’d gotten his shit together and thrown himself into his driving lessons, because first of all, it’s _hard_ getting a license in Singapore, and second, it’s hard getting it _fast_. But he’d gotten it in only three months, because he was: A) a good student, B) relatively rich which apparently warranted him priority as a student, and C) _overwhelmingly_  persuasive with his dick when he needed to reason with his attractive driving instructor from time to time.

( _14 times_ ; those things were _clearly_ not arranged in order of priority.)

A Class 2 license enabled him to purchase and ride whatever he wanted, so he visited a dealership on his birthday and quickly decided on a sick-looking Kawasaki NINJA ZX-10R – because it was shiny, the showroom had it in black, the green accents were tasteful, and he could ride it out. He’d paid in full on the spot, so they gave him a pair of Duke helmets for free and sent him off with a cheerful wave.

\--

The last day of his vacation was just like the one before; uneventful. But that’s okay – he’s not a wildfire kind of guy anymore.

He got up at noon and ordered pizza. Watched Star Trek – _again_ – till it was five in the afternoon and the sky was streaked with orange and pink. Then he got off the sofa and on his bike.

Rode for hours, eventually ending up at Fort Canning Hill and watching the last sunset he’d see in Singapore from the highest point. He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath and let it out. Thought about everything that had happened in the past three months, because damn. There had been so much. Too much – hell, he didn’t even feel like the same person and he only had a few hours to reconcile the before-and-after Harry Potter’s to make himself at least somewhat recognizable to his friends when he returned.

Or did he really have to, though? He felt strangely liberated. No obligations, no explanations. Just… Harry Potter. He’d made some seriously important decisions as the person he is right now, and he doesn’t want to lose that element of decisiveness in case it was triggered by something he couldn't recreate when he returned and…

He shook his head, helmet cradled in the curve of his arm; this was all so ridiculous, and he wasn’t going to undo three painful months of good, no matter how contradictory that sounded. He forcefully shut the door on his grieving process, because _shit_ , that was really fucking with his mind. It had to be over at some point, and now… Now was good. _Now was perfect_.

And he’d learned to do that awhile ago, actually. Shut the door. But he’d refrained, because he’d wanted to give himself a little bit more time, and, well.

He was glad he had. Refrained. 

\--

After the moon was well up into the sky, Harry rode the bike back into the garage of the apartment he was renting. He'd packed his things – cast a quick Diminuendo and tossed his new motorcycle into the front compartment of his haversack – and left his payment in the safe in accordance to the landlady’s wishes. (It wasn’t the culture in Asia, since they had minimum wage, but he’d added a generous tip to the overall amount anyway.)

All of that settled, he steeled himself for a confrontation bound to shake the foundations of the wizarding world itself, and apparated straight to the Burrow.

No one was around, which was odd for a week night, but he wasn’t going to question a good thing. He ended up waiting for half an hour before Molly Weasley strode into the kitchen to find him sitting there with a kettle of fucking tea and two neatly arranged cups, of all things, and she… Well.

She went _ballistic_.

He allowed her almost an hour of, “Do you know how concerned we were?! How could you Harry! You completely disappeared, we all went mental and—“

Smiling almost imperceptibly, he carefully, gently explained. That he’d been tired. That he’d needed a break. That he’d needed time to find peace with himself, with who he’d become and who he was going to be in the future. He told her things, so many things – things he hadn’t known he’d needed to think about, not so soon. He told her about the decisions he’d made, the direction he was going to take, and that he’d not grown into his own skin, not yet, but the past three months had been a promising start. 

And then he’d hugged her, and told her to stop crying.

When Ron returned home, eyes comically wide as he took in the scene of his best friend – “You disappeared for three fucking months, Harry what the—“ – chatting quietly with his mother, Harry very calmly lifted his eyes and said he was going to enroll himself in the Auror training program, if they would have him.

Ron punched him, and asked Harry to promise never to disappear like that again.

Harry didn’t – couldn’t – promise shit, but from the warmth in Ron’s eyes, he could tell that his best friend was beginning to understand his reasons, and that would have to do for now.

\--

**GOLDEN BOY RETURNS; WHAT WILL HE DO NEXT**

**WHERE WAS HARRY POTTER? THE INSIDE SCOOP**

**BOY WHO LIVED RETURNS TO WIZARDING WORLD**

—And those had been the tamer ones. Each headline had been more scandalous and ridiculous than the last.

He squinted at some of the pictures.

_Who the hell was Daniel Radcliffe?_

Harry looked at all the editions of the Daily Prophet that accumulated in the time he’d been to Singapore. Something had to be done about this, because he wasn’t about to live the rest of his life on the press. Not anymore.

\--

Harry Potter was seated in front of Barnabas Cuffe – Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Prophet.

“Good morning Mr. Cuffe,” the teenager had said simply.

Particularly underwhelming as a greeting, and as taken aback as Cuffe had been to see one of the most reputable wizards sitting across from him in his office, he hadn’t shown it.

(But it had been a _damn near thing_.)

“Good morning Mr. Potter, it has been a long time. What brings you to the headquarters of the Daily Prophet?” Cuffe leaned back, smiling. Harry’s palms were downturned over each knee, and he was seated comfortably. This hadn't escaped Cuffe’s attention; the boy – man, now – had previously been squeamish and visibly perturbed when faced with members of the press, showing intense distrust and a hatred for public attention.

Now, he looked collected and comfortable in his seat. Most notably, not only was Harry Potter in his office, Cuffe had not been the one to invite him.

 _This was significant_.

“It has come to my attention that no matter how much I loathe the idea, I will be a public figure,” Harry began. “This is unlikely to change for at least the next five years or so.”

Cuffe nodded silently. There was no point in lying.

Harry seemed thoughtful. “As I do not wish to battle the press, I will come to you to divulge important updates on my life,” he informed Cuffe, whose eyes widened more with each word that fell from the younger wizard’s lips. “Regular interviews may also be arranged; today might even be the first of such events.”

Blinking, Cuffe reached for a quill. He was unsure of why Harry was doing this, but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “If I may—“

“I will give you as many quotes as you want, Mr. Cuffe,” Harry interrupted, his back ramrod straight and his tone sharp. Cuffe absently wondered when Harry Potter had learnt the art of wielding formality as a weapon, his back automatically straightening. “However, I have several conditions before I agree to proceed with this arrangement.”

Hesitant but reluctantly intrigued, Cuffe gestured for him to continue.

“Under no circumstances will the Daily Prophet publish any article about me unless it has been written by you, and under no circumstances are you to write anything based on public speculation. If you have questions, you may contact me via owl, or come directly to me.” Harry spoke serenely. It was clear that he’d come prepared. “I will not tolerate comments about my life being made by people who do not know me for me. In addition, my friends, family and colleagues are not to be approached for comments by the Daily Prophet. I will provide a list of people to avoid unnecessary confusion, and I reserve the right to update this list as and when necessary.”

Cuffe sputtered indignantly. Agreeing to such terms would be disastrous for the paper; they had to generate news, and gossip had always been their stud bull. He could not simply— “Mr. Potter, we cannot limit the press to such stringent—“

“I will dissolve our agreement and approach other papers who are almost as influential as the Daily Prophet to recreate this arrangement should my terms not be met,” Harry continued seamlessly, and significantly less serenely. He'd left the statement open-ended, but the implications were clear.

The editor stared at him, mute with horror.

“Ah,” Harry added with a wry smile, leaning across to retrieve a mint from the glass bowl atop Cuffe’s desk, “and please. _No Rita Skeeter_.”

\--

Hedwig swooped in gracefully through the open window, and Harry crossed the drawing room to retrieve the evening edition of the Daily Prophet.

His brow furrowed.

**BOY WHO LIVES EAGER TO ENTER AUROR PROGRAM;**  
**PUT THE PAST BEHIND HIM IN PURSUIT OF NEWER DEMONS**

And that's hardly what he'd said to Cuffe, but Harry figures that the man's walking a fine line as it is, with the Prophet's journalism standards being as low as they are. At the very least, it couldn’t hurt to skim the article for inconsistencies before going to town on his ass with hexes.

He sank into one of the seats near the fireplace; there's a four-page piece that details the more relevant details pertaining to the attention grabbing headline. Try as he might, Harry can't fault Cuffe for anything other than the stupid title; all his quotes are word for word, letter for letter.

It also helped that he's taken shittier pictures, and he tossed the thought of Professor _'Perfect Hair'_ Lockhart out the window before it fully took shape.

Setting the paper down, he reneged on his initial desire to sent Cuffe a note in gratitude - this had been an agreement between them after all, not a request on his part - and instead picked up his acceptance letter to the Auror training program. He starts in January.

He looked up after reading it from start to end, eyes roving over the musky house and the small ways he's managed to unravel its stillness since he'd arrived. Displaced chairs and mug stains, the dust disturbed where his papers and fingers have been.

Thinks about the things he needs to do and adds one to the list.

\--

Hermione was concerned, but then again, the day Hermione wasn’t will be the day Harry trusts a Ron Weasley who despises the Chudley Cannons.

"It's just..." She looks so apprehensive, mildly afraid even; Harry wonders when he's learnt to read Hermione like this. "You've..." She trailed off lamely, emanating frustration and misery at being tongue-tied.

Harry understands, though; he's changed a lot since his three-month long sabbatical. He might be oblivious, but it's hard not to notice something's different about yourself when _you're_ the one who went through all the effort to put the aforementioned change into effect. "It's better this way," he said, and thinks about all the movies he'd seen before he returned, wondering whether James T. Kirk would have said something similar, or if it would've been Spock. "It is necessary to embrace change from time to time," he added, and yeah, that _definitely_ made it Spock.

Wow, he’d watched _so much_ Star Trek.

"Change is fine, Harry, things are different for Ron and I too, but..." Hermione shifted a little on her feet, eyeing the boxes surrounding them. "I just don't understand... _Why_?" She asked quietly.

And what Hermione was really asking was, 'why now,' because Grimmauld Place had been stripped down till there is nothing of its history, of its legacies. Harry's belongings were packaged neatly; only five boxes and a haversack, because that's just his life - the other forty-seven were going to a storage facility he wouldn’t be visiting anytime soon.

The thing is, he doesn't know how to explain that if he hadn't fucked off for three months, hadn't been on his own and had only himself to talk to... He'd have stayed. He'd have lived here.

_And it would have killed him._

Three months of thinking about Sirius, about the Order and all the shit that went down in the confines of this place and Harry just... He doesn't want that, now. Knows it would've rot him from the inside out.

Harry sighed, feeling the tension bleed from him as he turned to regard Hermione fondly. Something in her seemed to break then, and she threw her arms around him, sobbing. He held her gently, stroking her back.

"... 'Mione, I love this place, but _there's nothing left for me here_."

\--

His new house is in the-middle-of-buttfuck-nowhere, England, and _that’s perfect._

Harry spends a precious couple of days shifting furniture, connecting his fireplace to the floo network, and acclimatizing himself to his new space as meticulously as possible. It’s a little like how he’d felt in his first year at Hogwarts; he feels uncomfortable sprawling in his own room, reading in the window-seat or sitting at the counter having a cup of coffee. In fact, he feels uncomfortable doing anything at all and it’s a little frustrating – especially when he’s doing something hideously mundane, like brushing his teeth, because _what_ – but only because his surroundings are unfamiliar and that’s…

That’s manageable. _That’s fine_.

Yeah, he's not happy at the end of it all, but that's okay. He's content, and that's a lot more than he'd initially expected for himself. He's got time, and he'll grow into this place like he's trying to grow into his skin.

Slowly, but surely. He’s got a plan now.

\--

Christmas is unremarkable, but only because Harry turns down every invitation in favor of staying at home.

He appreciates the smallness of his own celebrations though, and drinks a glass of port. Hedwig is despondent with the heavy snowfall, but acquiesces to his need for quiet when he strokes her feathers affectionately. He writes letters and sends Hedwig off with them when the weather allows, mails the gifts through postage.

Doesn’t receive any till after New Year’s, though, because no one knows where he lives. He’s not ready for that yet.

\--

Sure, the whole Auror thing is tough, but he's had worse.

Hell, his seventh year at Hogwarts alone was pretty hard to beat.

The thing about the Auror Department is that it’s gone to shit, in the lack-of-leadership kind of way. Half the time, it feels like he’s being told to do independent studies or something, because the senior Aurors are all too busy to train the newly enlisted. He gets rare bits of guidance from the more regular faces at the office, but it’s hardly a good start.

He starts dueling again though; twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays with Aurors Marcus and Proudfoot if they’re available. That’s pretty good because if he’s going to be an Auror, he’s not going to do it with his head up his ass and a small skill set. Ron gets in on it and tells like, _the entire universe_ or something; suddenly the whole thing explodes and they’re doing it every day, with more people.

Thing is, he catches himself correcting some of the other trainees’ mistakes. It’s like Dumbledore’s Army all over again, and he gets Ron’s apologetic stares, but it’s okay, it’s _fine_ , because the Auror Department needs this. After a couple of weeks, Robards jumps on the hype and makes the duelling group mandatory for trainee attendance, indefinitely assigning Marcus and Proudfoot to manage the show after the latter injures himself – ironically, his left foot – in a chase. The two Aurors seem happy enough, and they take to teaching well.

Harry uses it to tire himself out. He goes to training, endures till he's black and blue, and falls into bed without healing the bruises. And that's... That's good. The pain is a good grounding force for him, and he stubbornly refrains from thinking about what that means, because-- no.

Ron looks at him worriedly from time to time, but neither of them have time to talk when the group runs even the best people into the ground, which Harry is grateful for. His testing results are off the charts and no one looks too closely if you excel in the Auror program - not even if you're the savior of the wizarding world. He frequently falls back on his past experiences to push himself forward; thoughts like, _'the basilisk was this close,'_ _'Cedric could have survived,'_ or _'Teddy could have had parents,'_ feature pretty frequently in his head.

The nightmares stop after awhile.

_He's grateful instead of ashamed._

And that’s probably something bad, but Harry remembers the aptitude tests and psych evals for Auror training being a pain in the ass and  _fuck_ , he's not going to subject himself to that shit again.

\--

Something Harry finds comforting now – of all things – are _lists_.

Should have listened to Hermione back in Hogwarts when she obsessed over the damn things. But then again, the same could be said for more severe things, such as taking the time to read Hogwarts, A History, because wow. That could have helped them a lot back then.

_Anyway._

He makes a list of people he cares about and then, a smaller list of the people he loves. Combines the two and sends Hedwig off to Cuffe with it to remind the editor of their arrangement, because that last article about his lacking romantic life last Thursday had been skirting the line _a little too close_.

Then he makes a list of people he wants to visit. A list of people he wants to write to, and a list of people’s graves he needs to pay his respects to.

When he runs out of lists pertaining to people, he turns to things. Things he wants to learn – fixing and modding his bike without help would be nice – and maybe he should pick up an instrument sometime. Things he wants to fix, and fuck, that features a lot of stuff; he has to split the list into Magical and Muggle, because the non-magical stuff may not really be his problem, but fuck. Three months in Singapore and he’s seen some _really_ messed up things.

Things he wants to tell Teddy when he’s grown up some, because the kid’s great, and he’s got a history of messing up good things and he doesn’t want to…

Well. _Yeah_.

He pins the lists up on the fridge with mismatched magnets; tries to make it feel like he lives here.

Predictably, it doesn’t help much.

\-- 

It kind of figures that him shaping up is an indicator for people to think something is wrong.

It’s been six months now, which apparently means he’s graduated basic Auror training and goes on the B-rank cases with Auror Savage as a shadow. The entire program is a little botched because the need to bolster their numbers after the war had taken priority, but they’re not too apologetic about sending out the main characters in the war like himself, Ron and Neville. He’s gotten pretty good at navigating the finer parts of the job, like the paperwork and politics of it all, and that’s gratifying.

His personal life is remarkably well put together; on weeknights, he corresponds regularly with Luna, Seamus, Dean, and surprisingly, Professor McGonagall. There’s no set order to that yet, but they all get a letter a week; sometimes he throws in Cho or Terry to shake things up. Owl’s a relatively shallow way to keep in touch, but he’s too busy with training and the like to do more.

He takes care of Teddy every Saturday, taking him to all kinds of places and buying him whatever the hell he drools most at that week. He talks a lot, and Teddy gurgles happily when they chill out at Harry’s new place. Teddy’s crawling and tottering about now, which means he has to keep an extra close eye on the kid. It makes Harry feel warm, because shit; he’s responsible for at least a little bit of how Teddy’s going to turn out, and that’s kind of awesome and horrifying at the same time.

 _Hawrrifying_. 

He goes to the Burrow every Sunday for dinner and a round of drinks with the Weasleys that will pull him through the following week. Endures Hermione’s piercing stares while making polite conversation with Arthur about his new bike. She hasn’t quite worked out what she wants to say to him, and he’s fine with that. He already knows what he’ll say when she does, anyway. Whatever it is, she’ll probably only come to him after she’s done with her N.E.W.T.S. and graduated.

Despite how everything seems to be smooth sailing, there’s something about the way people are looking at him that makes him feel like he’s on the wrong course, or like they’re waiting on him to fuck up. So he takes a day off and bikes out to see the one person who sets him at ease with the word, “snorkack,” because _seriously. These are the choices he makes._

“Harry!” Luna beams, her eyes dreamy and far away even though he’s right on her doorstep. “What brings you here? Would you like to come in?”

He smiles and nods, stepping into her house. Everything about the place screams Luna; there are odds and ends strewn everywhere – some of her little trinkets are dangling from the low ceiling, and there are old Quibbler editions piled to his height. It’s endearing, and so Luna that it’s refreshing. He tries not to think about how his new house still feels sterile and void of his presence _even when he’s in it_. “It’s great to see you, Luna.”

“Tea?” She offers, guiding him to a sitting room, which is essentially a sunken-in platform filled with pillows, because, well. Luna. Also, there are fairy lights everywhere, and that’s not even an exaggeration; he avoids tripping over a tangle of them only to trip over another tangle. Luna, to her credit, only smiles a little when he scrambles to right himself. “Orange juice?”

“Most people follow tea with coffee,” Harry says hopefully, because he actually likes that caffeinated stuff now, and shit. _When did that happen._

“Orange juice it is,” is Luna’s bright response, and she goes to get some.

Harry chuckles, shaking his head and sitting on a large, pale blue cushion. When she comes back, she presses a glass of aloe-vera apple juice into his hands – not even acknowledging that _‘this is so not orange juice face’_ he’s got on, because that’s Luna and her thought processes are wonderfully non-linear – and starts telling him about the latest edition of the Quibbler and how her father had asked for her opinion on one of the published articles.

Harry’s never been more grateful to her. Thinks he needs to see her more often, because Luna Lovegood is a personal panacea, and he needs as much of that as he can get in his life right now.

\--

He doesn’t quit smoking, but he does cut down.

Ron and Hermione know, of course. All the Weasleys do, and Luna. But he refrains, because it distresses them for varying reasons, and he’s not sure what to tell them when they ask him why he won’t kick the habit.

Doesn’t smoke around Teddy at all, because that would just be irresponsible as fuck. But when he’s biked out to Central London from buttfuck-nowhere for a pint of beer or for no reason at all, he lights one and revels in each thick plume of smoke that passes his lips.

It’s not so much for the nicotine or anything; he thinks he’s less addicted to smoking than he is to making lists. It’s just… The smell of smoke reminds him of his time in Singapore, and there’s a lot in those three months that he doesn’t want to forget.

\--

Hermione graduates and there’s a lot of fanfare because wow. Hermione graduates.

It’s not a big deal because she’d made it through; everyone knew she would. It’s a big deal because not a lot of them have bothered to go back on the education track, not after the whole war thing, and she did. Hermione lived through a war and her first step forward was to return to her studies and complete them. Flawlessly, too; all O’s for her N.E.W.T.S..

In many ways, this was a celebration of Hermione as a person more than it was a celebration of her success.

He arrives late, because it’s a Saturday and he had to drop Teddy off at Andromeda’s before making his way to the Burrow. He scrubs at his eyes, hoping he looks less exhausted than he feels from a full day of Teddy having a tantrum – it’s flu season, and the little guy had caught the bug.

The party is in full swing, and he follows the swell of noise that comes from the backyard; it’s an impressive barbeque.

Harry is prepared for Hermione’s approach, and hands her a mug of butterbeer when she seeks him halfway through the festivities. “What are you going to do now?” He asks, smiling warmly as he watches her drain the mug in record time.

“Apply for a position at the Ministry of Magic,” she responds as expected. “Since I still want to work on S.P.E.W., I might apply to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.”

“Seems you have things in order,” Harry says, waving at Luna from across the yard. 

Hermione nods, slowly turning to face him. Subdued and under her breath, she questions him, “do you?”

His eyes sweep over the occupants of the yard and soften. These are his friends, his family. Ron is trying to eat his weight in food with Ginny warning him against it, and George is pouring what looks like firewhiskey into Arthur’s untended glass. Charlie is enchanting Fleur with his tales of working with dragons, and Percy maintains a stiff-backed posture in the face of Luna’s dreamy oddities. Molly and Bill are fussing over something, with Arthur gently coaxing his wife into stepping away from the grill, and yeah.

“I do,” he tells her, and he means it.

_These are the choices he makes._


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no there's more

A year and a half into his training, Harry finds himself and Auror Savage staking a claim on a recently reopened case. There’s a niggling feeling about this one, and he’s sharing it with Savage when one of the interns approaches him. 

“Auror Potter, your presence is requested by Mr. Robards,” she says, looking at them and eyeing the haphazard myriad of maps and pins on the wall of Savage’s cubicle with disdain. She’s probably dreadfully organized, and she looks like she wants to set fire to Savage’s cubicle, and possibly Savage himself.

Harry raises an eyebrow. “Is it urgent?” He asks, because seriously, they’re _so close_ to getting this guy and—

“Yes.”

He sighs and follows her. “Uh…”

“Naomi,” she answers, even though he hadn’t asked. “Naomi Waters. I’m an intern with the Ministry, and I’ve been assigned to the Auror Department as Mr. Robards’ secretary.”

The rest of the journey is made in silence. Harry didn’t feel too bad about that. She opens the door to Robards’ office, and he blinks at Ron, because _what_? “ _Ron?_ ”

“ _Harry?_ ”

“Congratulations, the pair of you,” Robards is saying wryly. “As of today, you’re officially the eighth active pair-unit the Auror Department has.”

\--

They’d remembered to cast Homenum Revelio, but had forgotten about Finite. A stupid, careless mistake.

And that wouldn’t have happened, but the pair of them are sleep deprived and bone weary in the way even coffee can’t fix. And Harry’s just plain pissed off at this point, because he hasn’t been home in three days, and he knows exactly what Robards is trying to do—paint him and Ron as the new poster boys. Maybe it’ll bring up their recruitment numbers, boost morale… Whatever. But this is exactly what he didn’t want for himself coming into the Auror Department, and _god fucking damn it_ , he’s _so_ sick of this shit.

“This is – Blimey, this is _bullshit_ , Harry,” Ron hisses as quietly as he can, clutching at his leg and chewing on his lower lip to avoid giving away their location. Or just, you know. _Screaming_.

Harry heartily agrees. They’d been following up on a lead from their sixth – maybe seventh – case as partners, and this is the worst injury yet. Ron had been hit by a relatively simple Everte Statum spell, but seeing as how it had been set up to throw people away from the mouth of the cave and off the side of a _motherfucking mountain_ , that hadn’t turned out too well.

Ron had fallen around twenty to twenty-five feet, his saving grace being the thick shrubbery that cushioned his fall. Harry found him almost fifteen minutes later, bleeding out from where he’d torn his leg open a rock on the way down.

He curses, and casts a quick stasis spell over Ron’s shin. “That looks nasty,” he whispered, brows knitted. Shit, he could _really_ use a cigarette. “Listen, we can’t proceed with the plan.” Harry looks up at his partner, eyes burning with no small amount of concern. “We’ll pursue the case another day; let’s pull back for now.”

Ron stares at him in mute disbelief, and yeah, he can kind of get that. He isn’t exactly famous for retreating when the going gets tough, but that’s a really bad gash and he’s not going to face Hermione when her boyfriend’s got Spattergoit or some shit. “Ron,” Harry says urgently as he pulls out a Blood-Replenishing potion – thank god for his training days with Savage; the man had bled out on almost _every_ case, Jesus Christ – and presses it into the hands of his best friend. “Mate, come on." 

This seems to wake Ron up, who shakily wrenches the cork off and downs it all. The pain must be overriding Ron's taste buds, because Harry's choked down one of those before, and it's not an experience he'd care to repeat. “Yeah,” Ron rasps, grabbing onto Harry’s shoulder, his face contorting with the pain. “ _Yeah_.”

Harry apparates them straight to St. Mungo’s, and browbeats someone from Spell Damage to see to Ron immediately.

\-- 

Well, it hadn’t taken long to notice that the only thing being officially recognized as an Auror does is take away all his remaining personal time. He supposes that as the Savior of the Wizarding World and all that, he’s supposed to be okay with that.

Well, he bloody well isn’t, and he’s fighting for both himself and Ron to have time with their friends and family, and to rest. No offence to the wizarding world and all, but he’s sick of being their poster- _anything_. He likes his life the way it is now, and he won’t tolerate the Auror Department’s blatant desires to turn him into a workaholic for their own selfish purposes.

“This is unacceptable,” he says, tone carefully controlled. He’s speaking to all the senior staff of the Ministry of Magic, and on a Sunday, because Robards had fucking refused to see him when he’d tried to keep the matter internal to the department. Really, people need to start taking his threats seriously. He was gratified to see the man’s eyes shifting from colleague to colleague, clearly nervous about the outcome of this meeting. “Ron and I are not obligated to take on more duties than other fully qualified Aurors. We will adhere to a strict eight-to-six weekday policy for our work with the Auror Department in accordance with sections 38 and 40 of the Wizarding Employment Act, and we will not be denied our personal lives.”

Some of the people in the room stiffened, and Robards looked almost catatonic at this stage.

Good thing it’d occurred to him to firecall Hermione, because that little bit of legal jargon had earned him some points for doing his homework, even if it had been done by proxy.

And that’s Robards settled, but Kingsley Shacklebolt clearly doesn’t think he got to where he is by being tactful, so he stands up and speaks. “Auror Potter, the wizarding world is still rife with uncertainty. Has it not escaped your attention that many other wizards are working beyond their obligations at this time?” His eyes harden. “We do not recover from wars in mere months.”

And that’s true, but— “I haven’t stepped out of the Auror Office in five and a half days, barring this meeting and chasing two leads,” Harry points out reasonably. Several frowns appear, and yeah, that’s good. He turns neutral eyes on the department heads, cautious in keeping the irritation he feels from his voice. “Ron Weasley, my partner and best friend, was grievously injured the day before yesterday. The accident was caused by a careless mistake that would not have occurred had we been fully alert instead of tired and in need of proper sleep.”

Standing, Robards made to interrupt Harry, but he was silenced by Shacklebolt before he’d even said a word. The Minister of Magic nodded for Harry to resume his account.

“Ron will only be able to leave St. Mungo’s in four days time,” Harry continues. “Under the orders of Mr. Robards, he will be returning to the office - immediately after his discharge - to process the paperwork for the updates to our latest case, and will be attending to the administrative side of things till he is well enough to resume his active Auror duties." He pauses, allowing this newly presented information to sink in.

Shacklebolt glances at Robards after half a minute, looking perturbed. “Gawain, is this true?”

Wordlessly, Robards nodded almost imperceptibly. Disapproving murmurs were heard around the room, and Kingsley looks furious. Harry stood firmly, his facial expression carefully impassive in the face of their full attention.

“Very well, Auror Potter,” Shacklebolt announces, pinning Robards with a withering stare. Harry is deeply satisfied by this. “You may take a leave of absence, and your partner, Auror Weasley, will be allotted the standard fortnight of rest following the sustainment of grievous injury. This meeting is dismissed.”

\--

A week-long break from work, that confrontation got him, and he’s going to make use of _every second_.

Before all of that though, he apparates home and firecalls Andromeda to apologize for missing Saturday with Teddy, and tells her he’ll make up for it on Tuesday. After another quick firecall to Hermione updating her on the outcome of his eventful afternoon, he promptly crashes for twenty-one straight hours.

When he wakes up, it’s Monday evening, and he spends the night riding his bike without a destination in mind, and wow, yeah, he’s _really_ missed that. Missed her, and he wonders when he’d started giving his bike feminine pronouns and considering her a friend.

Takes her out, and lays down in the middle of a vast, open field, listening to the sounds of her engine purring while he watches the stars flicker into existence above him.

\--

On the second day, he visits Ron in the hospital. Hermione has a tray of bland-looking food, poised to feed her boyfriend, but it’s forgotten as soon as Harry dumps a brown bag of Molly’s home baked mince pie on Ron’s lap. He greedily devours that instead, to Hermione’s dismay, and asks Harry between mouthfuls to tell him everything that had happened at the meeting.

“Robards is going to _hate_ you,” Ron snorts gleefully, and Harry finds himself simultaneously impressed and terrified with the way his best friend consumes food. “Bet you anything he’s gonna break the dream team up.”

“Have you honestly been calling yourselves the dream team?” Hermione scoffs, putting the tray of untouched food aside.

“ _Ron_ does,” Harry quickly says over the protest Ron is in the process of voicing. Then he hums and ponders Ron’s statement. “You know, Robards _actually_ might do that. I wouldn’t put it past him.”

This makes Ron choke, and he thumps his chest in an attempt to dislodge whatever’s gotten stuck in his throat. Hermione hands him a glass, and he lets out a sigh of relief after three large gulps of water before turning to Harry with an alarmed look. “That’ll mean we can’t do cases together— He can’t do that!” The redhead exclaimed, before turning to his girlfriend with a mollified expression and asking, in a far more uncertain tone, “he can’t do that…?”

“He’s the Head of the Auror Department, Ron, he can do anything he wants,” Harry says drily.

Hermione cocks her head, looking at Harry pensively. “I wonder what your new partner will be like.”

“Worry about Ron,” Harry sighs, as Ron lets out a pathetic whimper. “ _He’s_ the one having an existential crisis.”

\--

He gets the letter on the third day, while he’s with Teddy at Baby Witch in Hogsmeade.

He glimpses his owl from where he is, sets down the rattler he’d been looking at – it’s very beautiful, and Teddy will doubtlessly drool on it till it isn’t – and balances a gurgling Teddy in one arm. He walks out of the store to stroke Hedwig’s back as she relinquishes the letter to him. “Thanks, old girl,” he says teasingly, and he gets a gentle nip to his ear in admonishment for that.

Teddy squeals and ruffles Hedwig’s feathers. She lets out an indignant hoot, but remains otherwise still, tolerating the child’s ministrations for three painful minutes before she soars away gracefully, doubtless expecting some kind of reward from Harry later for her generosity. Harry huffs a laugh, and opens the letter.

It informs him that his new partner will be an Auror four years older than him named Kyros – a graduate from Durmstrang Institute. He had played a part in the war by defending a high-ranking woman in the Ministry of Magic – he’d requested the Auror Office to assign him as her bodyguard indefinitely. She had later been discovered to be his foster mother, and he had come face-to-face with the horrors of the war when the coup against Rufus Scrimgeour occurred.

In the midst of it all, his foster mother had perished despite his best efforts.

The man had nine charges of murder and sixteen charges of assault and battery in total; all cited as incidences of self-defense against the threat of his mother’s colleagues attempting to murder her. He had been later been granted clemency against all sentences.

Apparently, Kyros had been working independently for an extended period of time – the man was rarely at the Auror Office, which explained why Harry has no recollection of his character. Kyros had specifically requested not to be put into a unit, and Harry wonders why.

He wonders about a lot of things where his new colleague is concerned, but puts it out of his mind for now. Smiles at Teddy and holds him close, relishing the sound of the kid’s delighted giggles; today is all about his godson, and work will come later.

\--

On the fourth day, he’s walking the quidditch grounds he used to run to at night when he couldn’t sleep. He crouches into a squat and pats the grass; it’s soft and warm with sun, and that makes his lips turn up at the corners. He waves when a bunch of Gryffindor kids filter through the pillars to spill onto the grounds, their brooms clutched in their hands for weekly practice.

After showing them a few nifty tricks, he heads to the headmaster’s – oops, headmistress’ – office and greets the woman he’d come to visit.

Professor McGonagall is every bit as intimidating as she had been while he’d been under her tutelage, but there’s a soft edge of kindness in her eyes that he’s learnt to cherish over the years. Not a lot of people have that in them, especially not in the middle of a fucking war, and she hadn’t wavered _even once._ Her traits of gentleness and grace had remained steadfast in the face of adversity, and that’s… _Well_.

Let it be said; Minerva McGonagall is a strong woman.

“The reunion for the students of your year,” she tells him leisurely over tea, “will be held in the middle of July, in the Great Hall.” Her facial expression betrays absolutely nothing. It's a date way off the anniversary of the end of the Second Wizarding War, and that's probably intentional, too. "It would be prudent to hold the event before the new schooling term begins," she adds shrewdly, as though reading his mind.

“A wise choice,” Harry responds before he promptly burns his tongue, and fails to hide it by choking like an idiot. “Very… Yeah.” He doesn’t know what to say, and that’s a blast to the past because it figures that his Transfiguration professor can still turn him from _man-who’s-gotten-his-shit-together_ to _awkward-teen-trying-to-say-words_.

McGonagall’s smile is almost imperceptible, but her eyes are wet – probably with something like nostalgia at seeing him again. Harry politely looks away, because she’s surrounded by her grief – she’s living and breathing in the place the war went down, and he’s not sure he can do that even now. Hell, he hadn’t known if he’d be able to tolerate seeing the walls of his school till _this morning_. 

“Well, Mr. Potter,” she says quietly, reinforcing his beliefs in her strength, “I think two years is long enough, don’t you?”

_Yeah, he does._

\--

He meets up with Seamus and Dean on Thursday, _because he can_ , and that’s nice.

He has a cigarette round the back of the Leaky Cauldron while waiting, because they’re both late – _as usual_ – and when they arrive, they’re running, swearing up a storm, and even more out of breath than he is from smoking – _as usual_. “I don’t recall a single time the pair of you have been to breakfast earlier than me,” he says as an opening line. Dean slaps him on the back and – _yup, there goes his cigarette_.

“Good to see you too, Harry!”

“Blimey, was that a cigarette, mate?”

“That stuff will kill you." 

Harry laughs, stubbing it out underfoot. “ _Something_ has to, eventually.”

They enter the pub to chat, updating each other about their lives. Seamus had been apprenticing under a skilled charms specialist by the name of Melinda Maverick, while Dean had been contemplating whether or not to enter a muggle art school. Both Harry and Seamus encouraged him to do so; his artistic skills had been revealed in varying ways over the years.

Harry tells them of his time in Singapore – leaving out the grittier bits of the story – and they listen to his tales of working in the Auror Department with rapt attention. “— I’ve been assigned to work with a new partner,” he finishes with a sigh. “Ron’s probably going to be paired with Neville, but I’ve already got my letter – he’s a few years older.”

“What’s his name?” Seamus asks, lifting his mug in time with his eyebrow.

“Kyros,” Harry answers, and the answering frowns made him laugh. “I know, I’ve never heard of the guy either. He’s been doing this for a lot longer, though, and I hope he’s good.”

Dean snorts, rolling his eyes. “If he’s partnered with you, he better be." 

“Yeah,” Seamus snickered, “or he’s going to die. Or, you know. Quit in a week.”

“A week’s generous.”

“Prolly is. You’re lucky if he sticks around for three days, mate.”

“Hey now,” Harry protests, but it’s halfhearted and this is, well… Nice. He picks up his butterbeer and downs it. They have another four pints each, because it’s been a long time and what the hell – it’s Thursday here, which means it’s Friday somewhere else, and that makes it okay, he guesses. 

It’s nice seeing Seamus and Dean again. Laughing with them, in particular, because the last time had been…

 _Well_.

\--

Friday’s been reserved for Luna, even if he only does make it over there at four in the afternoon. Shit, he’d had _so much butterbeer, what the fuck had he been thinking_. 

“I have a Wit-Sharpening potion,” is the first thing she brightly chirps at him, and he has to resist the urge to clamp his hand over her mouth and shush her because _wow. So loud_.

He’s led to sit down in her mountain of cushions and takes the potion she gives him, throwing it down his throat. After a few minutes, he thinks he can open his eyes fully without wanting to kill someone, and does so. “Thanks Luna,” he rasps drily, filled with gratitude.

She beams, settling into the space next to him. Barely a second passes before, “I’m thinking of buying another quill; should it be Rat Tonic red or Noxious Potion green, do you think?”

He stares at her for a bit and then chuckles, because Luna Lovegood is a national treasure. “Maybe Murtlap Essence Purple?” Actually, _why the fuck were all the colors related to potions_ might be a valid question to ask. 

Luna’s silent for awhile, before, “don’t be silly Harry; I already have a quill in Amortentia violet.” She shoots him what should probably be an admonishing look, and it looks anything but when she says, “I don’t want my quills to clash.”

He remembers that one time she’d paired a violent fuchsia cloak with a pumpkin orange dress, and he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

\--

He gets to see Teddy twice in a week, which is _fucking awesome._

Harry hasn’t got a single thing planned, so he takes the kid to London around six-thirty in the evening, and sets Teddy down on the ground to totter and tug him in whatever direction. He speculates that his godson’s level of interest in something is directly proportional to whatever the kid screams the loudest at.

And this was probably not his best idea too, because they’re outside a muggle bar.

“You’re going to be an alcoholic, Teds,” Harry sighs dramatically, while Teddy grins and makes grabby hands in the general direction of the bar sign. “This isn’t a good indicator of how you’ll be when you’re older.”

Still, it’s relatively funny, so he forgives, forgets, and takes Teddy to the Italian restaurant next door. He devours a burger while spooning tiny lumps of gelato into the kid’s mouth. Teddy loves it, and Harry figures that spoiling the kid isn’t that big of a deal since he usually gets to see him only once a week. “Stop dribbling,” he begs, and Teddy responds by licking his index finger. He hasn’t quite figured out how to feed Teddy, and shit, it’s been almost two years, _why the fuck hasn’t he worked out how to feed the kid_.

It’s so sudden he almost misses it.

“Love you, da’! ‘Arry!”

He drops the spoon, turning to stare at Teddy with wide eyes, because what are the fucking chances. Andromeda sees the kid every day, and Teddy’s first words are not only said _in his presence_ , but the words are definitely for him because that’s… A pretty accurate rendition of _his name_. 

And did Teddy say something close to _dad_? Like, _father, dad?_

Wow.

Teddy drools and bats at his hand for another spoon of gelato, like he hadn’t just changed Harry’s entire universe five seconds ago. Harry can’t stay he understands how a parent feels, because he isn’t a parent, but Teddy’s as close as it gets to being his kid without being his kid and he just…

Yeah, those are tears in his eyes.

 _Wow_.

\--

“Teddy called me dad,” he tells everyone at the Burrow the next day, because it’s still as amazing as it had been yesterday. His mind’s still reeling. 

There’s a beat of silence, before Molly slams down her pork roast, displacing all the cutlery on the table. Everyone but Harry seems to expect this reaction. “Were those his first words?!” She screeches, and he blinks, startled as he bends to pick up his fork from the floor.

“A-Ah… Um. Yes. At least, I think so.” He hadn’t exactly asked Andromeda, but seeing as how she’d been just as stunned as he had been when he’d delivered the news, he’d assumed that further questioning had been unnecessary.

“He called you dad?” Ron looked up from the pork roast and grins. “Mate, that’s awesome!” Hermione’s beam is dazzling as she congratulates Harry, and Fleur _demands_ – first in excitable French, then English – to know what Teddy’s exact words were. They crowd around him, all asking questions at rapid-fire speed.

“He said ‘ _love you, da’_ ,’” Harry answers, completely bewildered and somewhat cowed by the sudden Spanish Inquisition. “And then, _‘Arry_. Without the H." 

“’Arry’s close enough,” George smirks. “First words practically a full sentence… Your Ted’s gonna be a _genius_ , mate, mark my words.”

Molly is leaning into Arthur, looking at Ginny fondly. “Gin’s the same; she didn’t say a thing till she could form full sentences.”

“Mom!” Ginny looks mortified.

Harry chuckles, picking up his glass of elderflower wine. He thinks of all the times Teddy pauses in his drooling and looks up with severe eyes while Harry talks to him quietly about the war. All the times Teddy chambers into his lap with his fingers poised in a shaky Ta’al while they’re watching Star Trek, and all the times the kid somehow manages to pick up on his mood and totter over for a hug or a big sloppy kiss. 

Teddy’s always been sharp; the kid’s struck Harry as different a long time ago. This should come as no surprise, but Teddy’s basically one giant fucking surprise, and Harry loves him. Wants to protect him for as long as he’s allowed.

“You know George,” he says pensively, “I think I can believe that.”

\--

The thing is, Auror Kyros is fucking brilliant, and Harry doesn't know how to feel about that.

Harry hadn't known he'd harbored expectations till he'd seen the man on Monday, laid back and sprawled in a chair at the his own cubicle. Kyros looks young, almost as young as Harry, which means he makes a veritable effort in up-keeping his appearances. His hair is a daring shade of teal – cropped haphazardly and very wild – and his eyes are a piercing shade of green. Instead of the standard brown Auror robes, he dons a very appealing set of deep green robes, accentuated with silver threading and elaborate hemming.

"Slytherin," Kyros suddenly says, and Harry stares, because yeah. That's what he'd been thinking and _shit, is he that obvious_? Kyros chuckles at the look on his face and turns in his chair - it's a bright laugh filled with amusement. "It's a joke, Harry. I'm sure you've read that I'm a Durmstrang boy."

Harry nods, blinking. "Ah. Well, I..." He shakes himself internally, remembering his new partner is technically his senior and wow, this is a really bad first impression. "Yes, Auror Kyros. I received your working files when I got my next posting from Mr. Robards," he says, a tad stiffly.

Kyros is examining a sample meticulously, holding the bag up to the light. Something in it makes the bag ripple slowly, and Harry shivers with disgust while Kyros hums appreciatively at the disturbing movement. "Do you know why we call him Mr. Robards instead of Auror Robards, Harry?"

"I..." Harry's nose wrinkles because that’s a non-sequitur if he’s ever heard one. Is there a right answer to this? "No."

"Because he can't fucking do our job worth a damn, and the man hasn't a shred of delicacy. Bet he didn't even take out the nasty private shit out of my file," Kyros smirks, and Harry shifts on his feet uncomfortably before his new partner holds out a hand for him to shake. "No worries, and no formalities, Messiah. Call me by name - we're partners now, and I'm not dying because you don't warn me in time, stumbling over the stupid title."

"Don't call me that," Harry says on instinct, but he's still grateful for the olive branch, so he takes it and keeps the annoyance out of his voice. "Pleasure meeting you, Kyros. Good to see we're on the same page on more than one thing," he says quietly under his breath, eyes darkening as they settle on the doors to Robards' office.

"Christ, Harry," Kyros sighs, setting the sample down on his desk in the midst of many others, each little bag messily labeled. " _Everyone's_ on the same page where it comes to _that_  particular thing."

Harry blinks then, because he hadn't noticed any sort of discontentment from the other Aurors. He'd been guarding his opinions and facial expressions for that reason. "Really? _Everyone_?"

“Yeah, mate. You just live in a different book sometimes." Kyros doesn’t even look up from the wriggling samples when he adds, “by choice, because eh… That’s just your life, isn’t it?”

That's... _Accurate as hell_ , and the smug look on Kyros' face tells Harry he knows it too. "You're a very perceptive man," he says cautiously, because being read like an open book nauseates him a little bit, and he’s used to being on the other side of exchanges like these – has been for a while now.

“I’m weirdly observant.” Kyros gives him a cheerful grin, probably knowing the effect of his words. "One of my three skills that come in handy as an Auror."

“What are the other two?” Harry asks curiously.

“I can swear fluently in forty-eight languages,” comes the answer, “and I don’t mind samples that squiggle.” Kyros glances at Harry, lifting and dangling one of the bags at his eye level. “You’d be surprised how much that helps.”

The strangest thing is, Harry thinks he could really learn to like the guy. 

\--

The reunion is great, and it’s a short but well-deserved break from Auror work, and Kyros. Harry likes working with the man and their pair unit certainly stirs things up in the office, but he maintains that his partner’s exuberance remains best taken in smaller amounts at times.

He doesn’t use his plus-one, but he’s surrounded by friends. People are mingling in groups, and he drifts to each one at a good pace. The night is progressing well, and no one looks too emotional, though he suspects that some of them are still finding the experience of returning to Hogwarts slightly taxing. 

Hopefully the drinks George spiked will help.

Luna arrives, and her arm is hooked through _Draco Malfoy’s._

That causes the biggest stir of the night yet, and Harry deftly winds through the crowd to spare her the explanations. It takes a little effort. “Luna,” he says breathlessly when he finally reaches the pair, noting the lift of Draco’s eyebrow but pointedly not acknowledging it for now. “Uh… Hey.”

“Hello, Harry,” she says, voice lilting in that dreamy, Luna way. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been good,” Harry manages to say, blinking at where hers and Draco’s arms are interlocked before quickly meeting her eyes again. Shit. He doesn’t want to be one of _those_ people… At least, not openly. He cautiously turns to face Luna’s surprising date. “Hello, Malfoy.”

“Potter,” Malfoy greets shortly, before he inclines his head to Luna. “I’ll fetch us drinks. Stay here.”

Luna nods, and Draco takes his leave. He gracefully navigates the crowd, ignoring any and all stares directed his way. In a way, that is truly admirable in and of itself; there are many curious onlookers. Luna watches him go, and then turns to beam at Harry. “How is your new partner?”

“I— Kyros is good. Really brilliant guy,” Harry says distractedly, before he allows the confusion to sweep over his face. “Luna. You’re… You’re seeing—“

“Oh, _no_ ,” she laughs, “of course not, Harry. Draco and I are good friends; we had planned to attend the reunion together once the invitations arrived a month ago.”

Harry tries not to look shocked, he really does, but he expects he’s really unsuccessful. Also, she calls him Draco and that’s just…? _What?_ “When… Since when have you two been talking?”

Luna hums distractedly, counting months on her fingers till she runs out of them. “Maybe… For a year?”

“A year—“ Harry stares blankly at her. “But why—“

He’s interrupted by Pansy Parkinson striding up to them, Malfoy looking harassed as he tails her. “I am sorry,” the Slytherin says under his breath to Luna when he reaches them. “I tried to shake her off.”

That’s pretty mind-blowing to Harry, so he thinks his mouth hanging open now is an appropriate response, because _what?_ Draco Malfoy just _apologized_.

Luna smiles at Pansy, who gives her a withering look. That’s really annoying, because Luna smiles at literally everyone and everything and people tend to take advantage of that, so Harry bristles sharply.

To his surprise, so does Malfoy. “ _Leave us_ , Pansy,” he says in a warning tone.

But Pansy Parkinson is nothing if not a stubborn woman, and she remains with them, shooting Luna glares. After a total of seven long, painstaking minutes filled with awkward conversation – except for Luna, because well, she’s Luna – Pansy finally vocalizes her thoughts. “Why are you even hanging out with her, Draco?” Her voice is tinged with honest confusion, and it’s clear to see that Pansy sees no worth in Luna as a companion. “I owl’ed you two weeks ago to ask about the reunion, and—“

“I had already made plans with Luna at the time,” Malfoy declares through grit teeth, and it’s plain as day that his patience is running dry. _So is Harry’s._ “I chose to attend this event with her, because she is a close friend of mine.”

Pansy looks scandalized, but quickly picks up on the subtext of that statement and adopts a hurt look. “I thought _we_ were friends.”

Malfoy lifts his head to respond, his face blank. “Do not delude yourself, Pansy. Perhaps if you had spoken to me in my time of need instead of ignoring my pleas for aid, you would be standing beside me in Luna’s place.” He took a step closer to Pansy and narrowed his eyes. They were chillingly void of emotion. “I reiterate that she is a dear friend to me; _you will not insult her in my presence_ ,” he orders bluntly. “Take your leave _immediately_ , before I encourage your departure with demonstration of how angry I _truly_ am."

Luna sips from her glass of orange juice, looking interested in a bauble hanging over Malfoy’s right shoulder.

Harry stares at the confrontation, wondering _how the fuck this happened_.

Pansy gasps. She looks like she wants to say something, but decides against it as she turns on her heel and stomps away, likely seeking out a fellow Slytherin who still behaved like one to complain about the conversation that had just ended.

Malfoy immediately turns to Luna, and there is a plethora of emotions on his face that stupefies Harry, because _who the hell is this guy_? “I apologize,” Malfoy says again, and wow, yeah, Harry is _not_ going to get used to that any time soon. “She was extremely rude to you – trust me, I wouldn’t have even come if you hadn’t—” He suddenly seems to remember that Harry is still there, and they engage in an intense staring battle, Malfoy’s cheeks slowly flushing with embarrassment.

Luna pokes at the bauble she’d been eyeing, and the corners of her lips lift slightly. “Don’t be sorry, Draco. Thank you for the juice.” The bauble explodes, and a small rain of glitter flutters over Malfoy’s shoulder. He doesn’t even seem bothered, merely brushes his cloak distractedly.

Harry breaks the staring match with Malfoy with a blink, for the first time not minding that he loses to the man. He reaches for the glass of juice still in the Slytherin’s hand, sets it down on a table, and pulls out a small flask from within his robes. “That deserves some firewhiskey,” he breathes as he holds it out, still awed by the entire exchange he’d just witnessed. “Like, _wow_. Hell. _Drink it all_. I don’t care; that was _awesome_.” There’s a grin slowly threatening to split his face, because he wouldn’t trade having witnessed what had just happened for anything in the world. “Malfoy, _holy shit_. That was _fucking awesome_.”

Malfoy looks stunned, then achingly relieved as he takes the flask, and sips. Harry silently regards him with a cautious smile. For a few moments, understanding swells between them; they’re obviously not addressing the elephant in the room, but Harry’s deliberate nonchalance is permission, and Malfoy’s keeping step because that’s what he wants. A lot's changed for him; it's only reasonable to assume that a lot may have changed for Malfoy, too. At the very least, they share common ground – _they both cherish Luna._

It’s fragile and a pretty shaky foundation, but it’s a start. 

Harry wonders when he'd gotten this mellow; maybe he's maturing or something.

They both watch Luna float over to greet a nervous looking Neville, and they both lean back against the wall at the same time. A long silence passes, before Malfoy grabs for Harry’s flask again. After he’s had a sip, he serenely declares, “Pansy is such a _cunt_.”

Harry snorts a little of his drink, because shit, Malfoy just swore and it’s _hilarious_. Malfoy leaps back in alarm and ends up slamming his skull against the pillar and before long, they’re doubled over and laughing so hard while trading insults that everyone forgets who had walked in the doors with Luna.

Apparently, now Malfoy’s with Harry.

\--

> _According to half the wizarding world, we appear to be dating now.  
> _ _Which is not very amazing, considering how poorly the events of the reunion were recounted in the press._

The simple note is scrawled on a piece of expensive-looking parchment in elegant cursive, and Harry regards the owl that delivered it with a lift of his eyebrows. She’s a gorgeous eagle owl, and he’s got a solid idea of who she belongs to. It’s lucky he has a little time before Kyros gets back, and he tears an old map to be discarded into smaller pieces, scribbling on the back of it. 

> _Damn. I could have done so much better, too._

He sends it off, feeling triumphant, before he remembers the article in the Daily Prophet that morning; one of Rita Skeeter’s works, of course. A picture of Malfoy and himself at the reunion took majority of the front page, with the blaring headline, “ **HARRY POTTER AND DRACO MALFOY – REUNION’S HOTTEST COUPLE.** ”

Harry is making a mental note to contact Cuffe about that particular piece when Malfoy’s owl swoops back in through the windows with a reply; that was quick. Harry unrolls it leisurely. 

> _Lying is poor manners Potter; you couldn’t have a hotter piece of ass if you tried._   
>  _But in all seriousness though, are you?_

‘ _Gay_ ,’ Harry finishes the question, blinking incredulously at the note because _Draco Malfoy wants to know if he’s gay_. It’s only nine in the morning on Monday, and he’s already confused with the world – a new record. He decides to tell the truth and not to think too much about it, lest his brain implodes.

> _“Variety's the very spice of life, that gives it all it's flavor.” – William Cowper._

He sends it off.

It comes back in ten minutes this time, which is completely ridiculous; _what the fuck_ are the Malfoy’s feeding their owls? Harry smiles at the well-scripted response, pinning the note to the wall of his cubicle.

> _“Celebrate difference.” – Audre Lorde._

He glances at it for the rest of the day, gratified at his civil exchange with Malfoy. He supposes he can deal with a little bad press for this much progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> end my suffering

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, I know right


End file.
